Monday, 2 June 2014

A poem by Angela Kirby

The Bornean Hawk Moth Explains 

It’s the music I make, like this, see, vibrating 
my lower abdomen and rubbing my genitals -
it throws them off the scent. Those bloody bats,
they’re always after us, homing in, insatiable, 
they are.  You can't hear the music? Well, the  
bats can, so that’s OK, and it buggers up their
sonar; echolocation, I think it's called - whatever -
the music does it every time, sends them right
away from me and miles off course. Hell, I may
just be your ordinary small brown hawk moth 
but I've got this great trick of flying  after them
landing on their balls and laying eggs there,
one, two, three, or maybe more, I don't count - 
excuse me a moment while I rub and vibrate 
a little more - sorry about that, then, as I was  
saying, in a while, this is the best bit, one has to 
laugh, grubs emerge and munch on the bollocks
which, of course, is the end of those particular 
bats’ geneaology. Neat, isn't  it? But as a matter 
of fact, d’you know what, there are some nights 
when I could almost feel quite sorry for them.